by Linda Lovely
When Ross put down his radio, my aunt tapped him on the shoulder. “D’you hear me talking with your bride? You need to radio Carlos. Tell the sheriff, we’ll shepherd the passengers into the theater and attempt to bottle the reporter vultures in the museum proper.”
“Already done,” Ross said. “I also told Sheriff Delaney the boardroom was his. He wants to hold our passengers until he can get statements from everyone.”
Beyond the wheelhouse window, Arnolds Park’s signature roller coaster steadily grew taller. The amusement complex over a century old provided a home to both the Maritime Museum and the Queen II, a replica of a famed steamboat that plied the lake in the 1800s.
As Ross slid the Queen into her slip with studied grace, I surveyed the reception committee gathered on the pier.
“There’s Gertie’s ride.” May pointed at a battered four-wheel drive truck. “She’s parked beside the ambulance.”
I knew Gertie. The county medical examiner played bridge every Thursday with my aunt. When May was Dickinson County Hospital’s Director of Nursing and Gertie was a new hire, my aunt took the young nurse under her wing. Later, May encouraged her protégé to return to medical school. The addition of “Doctor” to Gertie Fuerst’s name hadn’t altered their friendship.
May chuckled at the assembly of official vehicles parked catawampus along the pier. “It’ll be interesting to see who wins this pissing contest. My bet’s on Sheriff Delaney. He’s that string bean who looks like he withered on the vine. Not a man to underestimate.”
A rangy six-footer stood beside an SUV with Dickinson County Sheriff emblazoned on the side. I watched as the sheriff shook a finger in the face of a state trooper who’d just climbed off his motorcycle. In the background, a cop leaned against a City of Arnolds Park cruiser. He’d apparently conceded jurisdiction and was content to observe the fuss.
“We don’t get much excitement,” May said. “Guess that trooper figured to get his mug on TV by responding to the death of a celebrity.”
“What do you suppose killed Jake?” I asked. “A heart attack?”
“Doubt it was a heart attack.” Having completed his docking duties, Ross joined in the speculation. “At our museum board meeting last week, Jake told me he’d just had a physical—EKG, cardiac scoring, the works. Passed with flying colors.”
He turned toward May. “Yes, Mom, I know—some doctors don’t know a stethoscope from an enema tube.” Ross and I grew up listening to Nurse May grumble about know-it-all interns with book learning but no horse sense. In other words, idiots who paid nurses no heed.
“I’m sure we’ll get the lowdown if Gertie’s allowed to talk,” May added. “Nobody saw wife number three give Jake a little push, did they?”
My aunt must have seen the dismay written on my face. She backtracked so fast her tongue practically performed a somersault. “Sorry, sorry. Sometimes my mouth outruns my brain. I forgot Darlene’s an old friend of yours. I didn’t mean anything. Just a stupid joke. Work in a hospital long enough and black humor becomes a bad habit.”
Ross cleared his throat. “At least no one’s going to accuse this wife of helping her husband overboard. Two of my deck hands swear Jake wandered off and was completely alone when he doubled up and pitched over the side.”
A crewman jumped to the dock and secured the Queen’s lines. At a neighboring slip, two Iowa Lakes Patrol officers tied their speedboat. The Queen had towed even more law enforcement in her wake.
As soon as the gangplank was set, paramedics hustled aboard. Hardly a minute elapsed before they wheeled Jake Olsen’s body to the ambulance. A plaid wool blanket covered the body. Darlene trailed the official procession. “Can I ride with him? Please.” Her voice broke, her pain evident.
“No, ma’am. Sorry.”
The ambulance doors snicked shut, and the sirens emitted a few high-pitched burps to warn milling officials. A news photographer snapped pictures of Darlene staring after the vehicle as it peeled away. I lost sight of my friend when the sheriff clamped her arm and steered her toward the museum.
That’s when I spotted a tall interloper amid the confusion on the pier. He stood ramrod straight, watching Darlene. With his face averted, I could only see his salt-and-pepper hair, styled not barbered. The way his suit molded to his body proclaimed it wasn’t off any ready-to-wear rack. Definitely a Mr. Moneybags. He looked eerily familiar. I shuddered.
He turned to stare at the Queen, and my stomach clenched.
Quentin Hamilton.
What the hell is he doing here?
TWO
“Quentin Hamilton.” The very sight of the man had me muttering. “You pompous jerk.”
Ross’s eyebrows shot up. “What? You know him?”
“Afraid so. Sounds like you’ve made his acquaintance, too. Why’s he here?”
May looked at me, then Ross. Her frown said she’d never heard tell of the man—a rare occurrence for a woman who’d birthed, nursed or sold real estate to most of Dickinson County. Ross smiled at May’s consternation. “He’s an out-of-towner, Mom. Doubt any members of your Spirit Lake intelligentsia have researched his bio.”
I tapped Ross’s arm. “Hey, cuz, you didn’t answer—what’s he doing here?”
He let out a long sigh. “His company provides protection services to a lot of bigwigs, Jake included. He was all over me before this cruise. Demanded a guest list. I politely told him to stuff it—he’d have to ask Jake. Hamilton got huffy. Said his clients were too important to be bothered with crap from some make-believe captain in a Halloween costume.”
Ross scrubbed his face with his hand. Exhaustion shadowed his eyes. The day was taking its toll. “I reported the conversation to Jake. He laughed. Said Hamilton was an arrogant bastard, and he only used the security company because he owed Hamilton’s father.”
Ross nodded at me. “Okay, your turn, Marley. Was Hamilton some Army mucky-muck?”
“Not exactly.”
I chewed my lip. How much should I say?
“During my stint at the Pentagon, Hamilton’s firm, Thrasos International, sought a multi-million dollar contract to revamp computer security for Department of Defense facilities worldwide. I represented Army Intelligence on the taskforce that slogged through proposals. I couldn’t believe some of the follies in the Thrasos bid.”
“I think I know what’s coming,” Ross said. “You torpedoed the bid.”
“Not exactly. General Irvine had that honor in a closed hearing well attended by government and military elite. But I sat at the general’s elbow. The hostile reception shocked Hamilton, who seemed unfamiliar with his own firm’s proposal. He was furious—expected business to be handed to him as a droit de seigneur. Since he could never accept the blame, he projected it onto me, a convenient scapegoat.”
“So you’ve been getting dirty looks ever since.”
“After the hearing, he cornered me in a deserted hallway, ‘You,’ he snarled, drawing out each vowel into a syllable of its own. ‘You’re finished. You hear me?’ He kept his voice low, but it quivered with hatred. He told me no one in the military would touch me after he was finished.”
“So he bullied you into retiring?”
“God, no. I made my decision before he issued his threats. To this day, my sole retirement regret is Hamilton’s belief that he cowed me into a rushed departure.”
I took a deep, calming breath and gave Ross and May a Cliff Notes version of what happened after the contract debacle. Hamilton lost a few million, but he used his contracts to bootstrap himself back into favor. To my mind, he still had too many former DAs, Special Ops soldiers, spooks and techie magicians at his disposal.
We watched Hamilton follow the sheriff and Darlene inside the museum. Suddenly I felt anxious for my old friend. She didn’t need that dipwad bullying her. I wanted to get inside, find Darlene and offer help—even if it was just a sympathetic ear.
As the last straggling passengers left the Queen, a couple of sheriff’s deputies passed t
hem on the gangplank, headed in the opposite direction.
“Guess I’d better greet our newcomers,” Ross said. “Why don’t you two go ahead to the museum? I imagine Eunice would welcome your help.”
I shrugged off the blanket tucked around my shoulders and took May’s arm. “Shall we?”
We crossed the wooden walkway onto the pier. When I glanced back at the Queen, sheriff’s deputies had already festooned the top railing with police tape. The ribbons of orange looked more like bunting than markers of an accident or crime scene.
Somehow the festive image made Jake’s death seem all the more macabre.
Eunice intercepted us before we reached the museum. “The volunteer docents and a couple of park security guards are keeping order. You were right, May. How did the TV, radio and newspaper folks get here so quickly? It’s been what, half an hour since the accident?” She shook her head.
Eunice handed me a towel and a set of extra work clothes Ross kept in his office. Though he served as museum director, he put in plenty of time varnishing wood, painting signs and oiling gizmos. The paint-splotched sweatshirt smelled faintly of my cousin’s aftershave.
She held a pair of worn tennis shoes by their laces. “I even scrounged these. Ross said you’d lost yours. You can change in the restroom and then come join us. The security guard at the theater will ask for a password. It’s Hafer.”
I smiled. What else? Ross’s vintage Hafer runabout was his pride and joy.
“Thanks, you’re a doll.” I hugged her. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Since Godfather’s Pizza was located a hop, skip and jump from the museum, the manager knew my kin well and volunteered to hang on to my soaked waitress duds for the duration.
Ross’s sweatpants sported a drawstring waist and elastic at the ankles, while the tennis shoes were only one size too large. I have big feet. Still I felt a little like a homeless hobo as I entered the museum.
The pool of reporters had grown like bacteria in a Petri dish. As Eunice warned, they roamed the exhibit areas, sniffing for story meat. Luckily, my skuzzy apparel marked me as hoi polloi—common folk—not one of Jake’s ritzy guests.
When I reached the theater entrance, the security guard eyeballed me with suspicion. But as soon as I whispered “Hafer,” he motioned me inside.
After the door closed, the throng’s whispers seemed to fuse into a white-noise hiss. Uncharitably, I decided the affluent were gathering gossip kindling to stoke next winter’s cocktail-circuit fires.
No sign of Darlene. Probably cooped up with Sheriff Delaney. I did spot Aunt May mid-hubbub, making soothing noises and patting the shoulders of sobbing guests. Eunice, who’s more than a tad shy around strangers, hid behind the refreshment table. A relieved smile lit her face when she saw me.
“Now I don’t feel so out of place,” she whispered. “Look how I’m dressed.”
She wore a cotton rag sweater, jeans with that aged patina prized by kids, and not one iota of makeup. Eunice and her twenty-five-year-old daughter could star in a mother-daughter anti-wrinkle cream commercial.
“Hey, my fashion statement makes you look like a runway model. But don’t worry. These people won’t notice either of us. Serfs are invisible.”
Few young faces appeared in the middle-aged to geriatric sea. While most were over forty, the guests tended to exude that prime-of-life glow that’s a badge of the wealthy. Tucks, lifts, and liposuction expunged the consequences of gravity and two-martini lunches. Emollient bronzers polished cheeks with a warm glow. Flitting smiles revealed rows of straight teeth, so white they bordered on fluorescent.
I’d met a few of the Iowa “Who’s Who” at the one gala I attended. I recognized the owners of a restaurant chain featuring low-fat buffalo steaks. An evangelist who performed lakeside baptisms for a TV following prayed over a small group of bowed heads. While I couldn’t place any other faces, many looked news clip familiar.
The theater door squeaked open for another latecomer. Ross.
Oh, crap. Hamilton followed at his heels. A bas-relief cord in the man’s neck thumped like an overworked piston. Not a happy camper.
Ross fast-walked toward us with Hamilton cemented to him and spewing invectives.
I wondered how my old enemy would react when he saw me. Had the past three years lessened his animosity? New bulls to gore and all that?
His gaze flicked over my face. Bingo. The gray eyes narrowed to slits. “Colonel Clark.” He addressed me with a mocking bow. “What are you doing here?”
“No need to call me Colonel. I’m retired.”
“I heard.” He almost purred, quite pleased with himself. Yes, the dolt thought I’d run because he’d frightened me.
I declined to explain my presence. No sense contaminating Ross’s situation by introducing our cousinhood. With a shrug and a cold smirk, Hamilton let it go.
He coughed. Hamilton’s look seemed to blame me for whatever he’d hawked up. He turned to Ross. “Someone from my staff will be in touch.”
He strode away as if on a presidential mission. My cousin and I remained silent until he was out of earshot.
“So what’s that SOB want now?” I prodded. “Why are his people contacting you?”
“He’s just trying to cover his butt. His company was on point when his billionaire client dropped dead. He’s calculating how to shift blame if there’s anything hinky about the circumstances.”
Ross cracked his knuckles. “The asswipe told me he’s conducting his own probe into ‘Jake’s accident.’ He demanded background on Queen employees and zeroed in on Carlos. Hamilton is too politically correct to call him a gypsy, but he pigeonholed Carlos as an undesirable.”
Ross grinned. “I couldn’t help myself. Had to ask: ‘Gee, didn’t your people vet everyone ahead of time?’ That really torqued him.”
I shook my head. “Welcome to Hamilton’s enemy list. Say, did Olsen have a Thrasos bodyguard aboard the Queen?”
Ross cut his eyes across the room to a muscled fellow standing at parade rest. “Yeah. That guy with the twenty-inch neck. He was in the head taking a leak and missed all the action.”
My chuckle bubbled up before I thought better. When scowls swiveled our way, I sobered. These people had just suffered a loss.
I touched Ross’s sleeve. “With all the excitement, I haven’t had a chance to say how sorry I am about Jake. I know how much you liked him.”
My cousin bit his lip. “Yeah, I did. We weren’t exactly bosom buddies, but he sure was a friend of the museum. He loved the lakes as much as I do.”
My aunt bustled over. “Ross, there are a bunch of limos outside. The guard tells me they’re waiting to shuttle these people to Jake’s house for dinner. I’m certain the widow won’t want to play hostess. See if the drivers could take these folks to their cars instead.”
Before Ross could run the errand, a sheriff’s deputy entered and made a beeline for our group. “That’s Pete Marshall,” May said. “I was in the delivery room when he was born. Cared for his mother before the cancer took her.”
The lawman leaned down and whispered in May’s ear.
My aunt turned toward me. “Pete, this is my niece, Marley Clark. Deputy Marshall here has a message from Sheriff Delaney. Apparently Darlene wants to know if you’ll go home with her and stay the night.”
I hesitated, then nodded. I’d want company in the same circumstances.
“Good,” Deputy Marshall said. “Follow me. I’m to drive you and Mrs. Olsen home. The Sheriff said he’d be by later to get your statement. You were the one who jumped in after Mr. Olsen, right?”
“Yes,” I answered. “That’ll be fine.”
Ross touched my shoulder as I turned to go. “Want me to pick you up at Darlene’s house tomorrow morning?”
I smiled my thanks. “Okay, I’ll treat. Breakfast at the Family Diner.”
We settled on a nine o’clock rendezvous unless I called to reschedule.
As I left with the deputy, a scowling Ha
milton pointed me out to a local. Was he trying to ferret out my Spirit Lake connections? How tight did he hold to his grudge? What was it Jeff used to say? “The smaller the brain, the bigger the need for revenge.”
THREE
Deputy Marshall escorted me to his official ride and handed me into the backseat. “Sheriff Delaney is bringing Mrs. Olsen.”
He’d barely got the words out when the sheriff shepherded Darlene out the museum door. Predatory reporters circled like a wolf pack, ready to cut out the weak and rip them apart with questions sharp as canine teeth.
With a protective arm around her shoulders, the lawman cleared a path with repeated “get out of my way” commands.
A man shouted at Darlene’s back. “How did your husband die? How much do you inherit?” Another voice piped in, “How will this affect Jolbiogen stock?”
Darlene looked shell-shocked. Tears dribbled down her flushed cheeks, and smeared mascara lent a bruised look to the skin beneath her eyes.
Until our surprise rushed reunion aboard the Queen, it had been thirty years since I’d seen Darlene in anything except sporadic Christmas card photos. I’d barely recognized her.
As a twenty-year-old, she’d been farmer’s-daughter curvaceous, her strawberry blonde hair long and ironed straight. Now she was model thin with platinum-dyed hair feathered in a short pixie style. Only her luminous green eyes remained unchanged.
As the sheriff opened the car door for Darlene, he turned on the reporters and held up a scrawny, sunburned hand. “Mrs. Olsen just lost her husband—please extend a little courtesy.”
Bless you.
Darlene scooted across the bench seat and wrapped me in a bear hug.
Sheriff Delaney leaned in. “I know you have private security, but I’ll lend a patrol car to help keep the tabloid snoops at bay.” His message arrived on tobacco-laced breath.
His gaze slid toward me. “Ms. Clark, I have some questions for you. I’ll try to come by before it gets too late.”
Delaney slammed the car door and the deputy sped away, official blue lights flashing, siren silent. The deputy didn’t say a word. The sudden silence gave me chills.
